Ralph Ellison
Born in Oklahama City, Oklahama in March, 1914, Ralph Waldo Ellison (named after Emerson) wrote one of my favorite novels, Invisible Man. Like the narrator, he didn’t finish college (he studied at the Tuskegee Institute) and instead ventured forth to New York City during the summer between his junior and senior years. There, he met two literary figures of the Harlem Renaissance: Alain Locke and Langston Hughes. As a member of the Federal Writer’s Project, Ellison gathered urban folklore which he would later use to write Invisible Man. He later accepted a teaching position at Bard College and also taught at Rutgers University, the University of Chicago, and New York University. He won numerous awards including the National Book Award (1953), the Russwurm Award (1953), the Academy of Arts and Letters Fellowship to Rome (1955-1957), the Medal of Freedom (1969), and the Chevalier de l'Ordre des Artes et Lettres (1970). I was a senior in high school the first time I read Invisible Man. I didn’t fully understand the novel, but I felt instantly drawn to Ellison’s writing. The narrator has many crazy, often surreal experiences, yet there’s a sense of reality that permeates throughout the story in the narrator’s voice. Now as a junior in college, I’ve read the book three times and I am still finding and discovering more nuances and hidden mysteries in his writing. I discovered his novel at that developmental period of my life when I am discovering my own identity. Through his novel, I've come to believe that it is forever an ongoing process. People may try to tell me who I am or who I should be, but ultimately, that decision will always lie with me. Ellison may be telling the story of an African-American, but I firmly believe that his novel resonates to all people. He concludes the narration with: "Who knows but that, on the lower frequencies, I speak for you?" Excerpt: Invisible Man My head spun. He was addressing me, leaning forward confidentially, as though he’d known me for years, and I remembered something my grandfather had said long ago: Don’t let no white man tell you his business, ‘cause after he tells you he’s liable to git shame he tole it to you and then he’ll hate you. Fact is, he was hating you all the time . . . “. . . I want to try to reveal a part of reality that is most important to you--but I warn you, it’s going to hurt. No, let me finish,” he said, touching my knee lightly and quickly removing his hand as I shifted my position. “What I want to do is done very seldom, and, to be honest, it wouldn’t happen now if I hadn’t sustained a series of impossible frustrations. You see--well, I’m a thwarted . . . Oh, damn, there I go again, thinking only of myself . . . We’re both frustrated, understand? Both of us, and I want to help you . . .” “You mean you’ll let me see Mr. Emerson?” He frowned. “Please don’t seem so happy about it, and don’t leap to conclusions. I want to help, but there is a tyranny involved . . .” “A tyranny?” My lungs tightened. “Yes. That’s a way of putting it. Because to help you I must disillusion you . . .” “Oh, I don’t think I mind, sir. Once I see Mr. Emerson, it’ll be up to me. All I want to do is speak to him.” “''Speak'' to him,” he said, getting quickly to his feet and mashing his cigarette into the tray with shaking fingers. “No one speaks to him. He does the speaking--” Suddenly he broke off. “On second thought, perhaps you’d better leave me your address and I’ll mail you Mr. Emerson’s reply in the morning. He’s really a very busy man.” His whole manner had changed. “But you said . . .” I stood up, completely confused. Was he having fun with me? “Couldn’t you let me talk to him for just five minutes?” I pleaded. “I’m sure I can convince him that I’m worthy of a job. And if there’s someone who has tampered with my letter, I’ll prove my identity . . . Dr. Bledsoe would --” “Identity! My God! Who has any identity any more anyway? It isn’t so perfectly simple. Look,” he said with an anguished gesture. “Will you trust me?” “Why, yes, sir, I trust you.” He leaned forward. “Look,” he said, his face working violently, “I was trying to tell you that I know many things about you--not you personally, but fellows like you. Not much, either, but still more than the average. With us it’s still Jim and Huck Finn. A number of my friends are jazz musicians, and I’ve been around. I know the conditions under which you live-- Why go back, fellow? There is so much you could do here where there is more freedom. You won’t find what you’re looking for when you return anyway; because so much is involved that you can’t possibly know. Please don’t misunderstand me; I don’t say all this to impress you. Or to give myself some kind of sadistic catharsis. Truly, I don’t. But I do know this world you’re trying to contact--all its virtues and all its unspeakables-- Ha, yes, unspeakables. I’m afraid my father considers me one of the unspeakables . . . I’m Huckleberry, you see . . .” He laughed drily as I tried to make sense of his ramblings. Huckleberry? Why did he keep talking about the kid’s story? I was puzzled and annoyed that he could talk to me this way because he stood between me and a job, the campus . . . “But I only want a job, sir,” I said. “I only want to make enough money to return to my studies.” “Of course, but surely you suspect there is more to it than that. Aren’t you curious about what lies behind the face of things?” “Yes, sir, but I’m mainly interested in a job.” “Of course,” he said, “but life isn’t that simple . . .” “But I’m not bothered about all the other things, whatever they are, sir. They’re not for me to interfere with and I’ll be satisfied to go back to college and remain there as long as they’ll allow me to.” “But I want to help you do what is best,” he said. “What’s best, mind you. Do you wish to do what’s best for yourself?” “Why, yes, sir. I suppose I do . . .” “Then forget about returning to the college. Go somewhere else . . .” “You mean leave?” “Yes, forget it . . .” “But you said that you would help me!” “I did and I am--” “But what about seeing Mr. Emerson?” “Oh, God! Don’t you see that it’s best that you do not see him?” Suddenly I could not breathe. Then I was standing, gripping my brief case. “What have you got against me?” I blurted. “What did I ever do to you? You never intended to let me see him. Even though I presented my letter of introduction. Why? Why? I’d never endanger your job--” “No, no, no! Of course not,” he cried, getting to his feet. “You’ve misunderstood me. You mustn’t do that! God, there’s too much misunderstanding. Please don’t think I’m trying to prevent you from seeing my--from seeing Mr. Emerson out of prejudice . . .” “Yes, sir, I do,” I said angrily. “I was sent here by a friend of his. You read the letter, but still you refuse to let me see him, and now you’re trying to get me to leave college. What kind of man are you, anyway? What have you got against me? You, a northern white man!” He looked pained. “I’ve done it badly,” he said, “but you must believe that I am trying to advice you what is best for you.” He snatched off his glasses. But I know what’s best for me,” I said. “Or at least Dr. Bledsoe does, and if I can’t see Mr. Emerson today, just tell me when I can and I’ll be here . . .” He bit his lips and shut his eyes, shaking his head from side to side as though fighting back a scream. “I’m sorry, really sorry that I started all of this,” he said, suddenly calm. “It was foolish of me to try to advise you, but please, you mustn’t believe that I’m against you . . . or your race. I’m your friend. Some of the finest people I know are Neg--Well, you see, Mr. Emerson is my father.” “Your father!” “My father, yes, though I would have preferred it otherwise. But he is, and I could arrange for you to see him. But to be utterly frank, I’m incapable of such cynicism. It would do you no good.” “But I’d like to take my chances, Mr. Emerson, sir . . . This is very important to me. My whole career depends upon it.” “But you have no chance,” he said. “But Dr. Bledsoe sent me here,” I said, growing more excited. “I must have a chance . . .” “Dr. Bledsoe,” he said with distaste. “He’s like my . . . he ought to be horsewhipped! Here,” he said, sweeping the the letter and thrusting it crackling toward me. I took it, looking into his eyes that burned back at me. “Go on, read it,” he cried excitedly. “Go on!” “But I wasn’t asking for this,” I said. “Read it!” My dear Mr. Emerson: The bearer of this letter is a former student of ours (I say former because he shall never, under any circumstances, be enrolled as a student here again) who has been expelled for a most serious defection from our strictest rules of deportment. Due, however, to circumstances the nature of which I shall explain to you in person on the occasion of the next meeting of the board, it is to the best interests of the college that this young man have no knowledge of the finality of his expulsion. For it is indeed his hope to return here to his classes in the fall. However, it is to the best interests of the great work which we are dedicated to perform, that he continue undisturbed in these vain hopes while remaining as far as possible from our midst. This case represents, my dear Mr. Emerson, one of the rare, delicate instances in which one for whom we held great expectations has gone grievously astray, and who in his fall threatens to upset certain delicate relationships between certain interested individuals and the school. Thus, while the bearer is no longer a member of our scholastic family, it is highly important that his severance with the college be executed as painlessly as possible. I beg of you, sir, to help him continue in the direction of that promise which, like the horizon, recedes ever brightly and distantly beyond the hopeful traveler. Respectfully, I am your humble servant, A. Herbert Bledsoe I raised my head. Twenty-five years years seemed to have lapsed between his handing me the letter and my grasping its message. I could not believe it, tried to read it again. I could not believe it, yet I had a feeling that it all had happened before. I rubbed my eyes, and they felt sandy as though all the fluids had suddenly dried. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m terribly sorry.” “What did I do? I always tried to do the right thing . . .” “''That'' you must tell me,” he said. “To what does he refer?” “I don’t know, I don’t know . . .” “But you must have done something.” “I took a man for a drive, showed him into the Golden Day to help him when he became ill . . . I don’t know . . .” I told him falteringly of the visit to Trueblood’s and the trip to the Golden Day and of my expulsion, watching his mobile face reflecting his reaction to each detail. “It’s little enough,” he said when I had finished. “I don’t understand the man. He is very complicated.” “I only wanted to return and help,” I said. “You’ll never return. You can’t return now,” he said. “Don’t you see? I’m terribly sorry and yet I’m glad that I gave in to the impulse to speak to you. Forget it; though that’s advice which I’ve been unable to accept myself, it’s still good advice. There is no point in blinding yourself to the truth. Don’t blind yourself . . .” I got up, dazed, and started toward the door. He came behind me into the reception room where the birds flamed in the cage, their squawks like screams in a nightmare. He stammered guiltily, “Please, I must ask you never to mention this conversation to anyone.” “No,” I said. “I wouldn’t mind, but my father would consider my revelation the most extreme treason . . . You’re free of him now. I’m still his prisoner. You have been freed, don’t you understand? I’ve still my battle.” He seemed near tears. “I won’t,” I said. “No one would believe me. I can’t myself. There must be some mistake. There must be . . .” I opened the door. “Look, fellow,” he said. “This evening I’m having a party at the Calamus. Would you like to join my guests? It might help you--” “No, thank you, sir. I’ll be all right.” “Please,” he said. “I really want to help. Look, I happen to know of a possible job at Liberty Paints. My father has sent several fellows there . . . You should try--” I shut the door. The elevator dropped me like a shot and I went out and walked along the street. The sun was very bright now and the people along the walk seemed far away. I stopped before a gray wall where high above me the headstones of a church graveyard arose like the tops of buildings. Across the street in the shade of an awning a shoeshine boy was dancing for pennies. I went on to the corner and got on a bus and went automatically to the rear. In the seat in front of me a dark man in a panama hat kept whistling a tune between his teeth. My mind flew in circles, to Bledsoe, Emerson and back again. There was no sense to be made of it. It was a joke. Hell, it couldn’t be a joke. Yes, it is a joke . . . Suddenly the bus jerked to a stop and I heard myself humming the same tune that the man ahead was whistling and the words came back: '' O well they picked poor Robin clean O well they picked poor Robin clean Well they tied poor Robin to a stump Lawd, they picked all the feathers round from Robin’s rump Well they picked poor Robin clean'' Then I was on my feet, hurrying to the door, hearing the thin, tissue-paper-against-the-teeth-of-a-comb whistle following me outside at the next stop. I stood trembling at the curb, watching and half expecting to see the man leap from the door to follow me, whistling the old forgotten jingle about a bare-rumped robin. My mind seized upon the tune. I took the subway and it still droned through my mind after I had reached my room at Men’s House and lay across the bed. What was the who-what-when-why-where of poor old Robin? What had he done and who had tied him and why had they plucked him and why had we sung of his fate? It was for a laugh, for a laugh, all the kids had laughed and laughed, and the droll tuba player of the old Elk’s band had rendered it solo on his helical horn; with comical flourishes and doleful phrasing, “''Boo boo boo booooo'', Poor Robin clean” --a mock funeral dirge . . . But who was Robin and for what had he been hurt and humiliated? Suddenly I lay shaking with anger. It was no good. I thought of young Emerson. What if he’d lied out of some ulterior motive of his own? Everyone seemed to have some plan for me, and beneath that some more secret plan. What was young Emerson’s plan--and why should it have included me? Who was I anyway? I tossed fitfully. Perhaps it was a test of my good will and faith-- But that’s a lie, I thought. It’s a lie and you know it’s a lie. I had seen the letter and it had practically ordered me killed. By slow degrees . . . “My dear Mr. Emerson” I said aloud. “The Robin bearing this letter is a former student. Please hope him to death, and keep him running. Your most humble and obedient servant, A. H. Bledsoe . . .” Sure, that’s the way it was, I thought, a short, concise verbal coup de grace, straight to the nape of the neck. And Emerson would write in reply? Sure: “Dear Bled, have met Robin and shaved tail. Signed, Emerson.” I sat on the bed and laughed. They’d sent me to the rookery, all right. I laughed and felt numb and weak, knowing that soon the pain would come and that no matter what happened to me I’d never be the same. I felt numb and I was laughing. When I stopped, gasping for breath, I decided that I would go back and kill Bledsoe. Yes, I thought, I owe it to the race and to myself. I’ll kill him. And the boldness of the idea and the anger behind it made me move with decision. I had to have a job and I took what I hoped was the quickest means. I called the plant young Emerson had mentioned, and it worked. I was told to report the following morning. It happened so quickly and with such ease that for a moment I felt turned around. Had they planned it this this way? But no, they wouldn’t catch me again. This time ''I ''had made the move. I could hardly get to sleep for dreaming of revenge. Writing Prompt: The narrator in Ellison’s Invisible Man is on a constant quest to find his identity. Develop a character who struggles with an identity crisis. By going on a “find yourself” journey with your character, you also practice your character development. You may also choose to incorporate Ellison’s “jazz,” or improvisational, style of writing by including confusing/ambiguous dialogue, dreams, letters, poems and songs.